"No," he said curtly.
She looked confused, but her befuddlement quickly turned to outrage. "No? What do you mean, no?"
He took a deep breath. She was naked, spread before him, pleading with him. Take her, the reptile part of his brain whispered, just take her.
"We can't. I don't have protection." He sat up, or at least he tried to. The neuron thingy that connected his muscles to his brain seemed to be malfunctioning. "I should get some scissors and free your hands."
"No," she squealed. "You can't. I mean, we can."
She wriggled around reaching for something.
"What are you doing? Are you looking for something?"
"Your jacket," she muttered, trying to reach something behind her. "They're in your jacket."
"What?" He grabbed her, holding her still. She glared at him.
"There's condoms in your jacket," she said, enunciating each word carefully. "Pick it up."
"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "There's nothing in my jacket, which, by the way is still on the—"
She kicked his leg. Hard.
"I grabbed it. It fell somewhere behind me. Now. Pick. It. Up."
He felt the floor behind his head, and, sure enough, his fingers closed around the rough fabric of his BDU jacket. He grabbed it and looked at it. It looked and felt perfectly normal.
"Front pocket," she barked impatiently.
He dug into the front pocket and took out two foil-wrapped squares. He stared at them in disbelief.
"Open one," she said firmly. "Put it on."
He looked at her, still trying to process this development.
"And fuck me," she concluded, eyes narrowed in determination.
He stared at the woman before him, naked and unashamed, her arms bound behind her back, ordering him around in an almost regal tone. She looked like a wild barbarian princess, demanding her due, absolutely certain that her demands would be met.
He stared at her, hypnotized. He'd fantasized about Abby a thousand times, but never, not in his wildest dreams, had he dreamed something like this.
Her eyes bored into him like lasers. "As hard as you can."
CHAPTER TEN
ABBY WATCHED, spellbound, as Mike took his clothes off. He pulled off his shirt revealing rock hard abs and plenty of muscle. Her gaze followed a trail of blond hair that led down into his camouflage pants, and she gulped down a shaky breath. She'd known Mike had an unhealthy obsession with push-ups and boot camp-style workouts, but she was still surprised at the results. But she didn't have much time to do anything but gape. Mike unbuckled his belt with a quick efficient motion and pulled down his pants. It didn't take long. In a split second, he was on his knees, ripping open the condom package.
Just this once, she was profoundly grateful for Mike's obsessive efficiency.
Then his muscular body, arms on either side of her shoulders, pressed her hungry body against the thin rug. She shuddered in pleasure. The taking was quick and brutal, and she liked it that way. Mike's gentleness had been stripped away and the torturous chivalry of the last few minutes was barely a memory.
She buried her face into his neck as he thrust into her wildly. This was a different Mike, wild and rough. Her wrists hurt, her arms hurt, her back hurt, but none of that mattered. She liked this side of him, and she gloried in the fact that she'd been the one to bring it out.
Her muscles tensed as the orgasm built relentlessly inside her with every thrust. She bit her lip, teetering on the edge, a wave of pleasure about to engulf her.
But Mike grabbed her hair and pulled, forcing her to look into his eyes, eyes that were dark with a need that went far beyond sexual.
"Come for me," he growled. "Now."
She obeyed instantly, her body convulsing around his, the pleasure almost too much to bear. She was still shuddering with orgasmic aftershocks when he groaned and pushed into her, his own pleasure overtaking him.
His hard body was heavy over hers, but she smiled. She'd done this to him. She'd made him lose control.
It was a pretty good feeling. But, as her orgasmic high faded away, other feelings made themselves known. Her arms were still tied behind her back and her arm muscles were cramping.
"Hey." She nudged Mike gently.
"Hmm," he groaned, eyes closed.
She nudged him again and he flipped onto his back, dragging her on top of him.
She sighed. This was an improvement, but not much of one. Any other time she would have been overjoyed to be pressed against Mike's muscular body, but, now that her sexual excitement had worn off, she could no longer ignore the sharp pain in her muscles.
"Mike?" she whispered, trying to conjure a reaction.
Another groan.
"Look," she said, now in a loud exasperated voice. "I appreciate that I'm a sexual goddess and my voracious magic pussy has drained you of all energy and strength."
His eyes opened wide. "Magic pussy," she figured, wasn't a phrase he heard often, but at least he was conscious, which was a huge improvement.
"Sorry," she continued, with an apologetic smile. "But I think it's time to get the scissors."
He nodded, looking chagrined, and leapt to his feet. He staggered a bit, his feet tangled in his pants and she stared at him in admiration as he took off his pants and boots. She felt like every muscle in her body had melted away, but Mike looked ready for action.
"The kitchen's in the back," she told him. "Right side drawer next to the range."
She lay still, catching her breath and considering whether to purchase a new living room rug. Her vintage rug was not made for lovemaking. It was silky soft, with the kind of patina only years of use could create, but it was also, as her aching bones could testify, woefully thin. Maybe she should find a plusher rug. After all, accommodations had to be made, especially when a newly acquired, ex-military boyfriend joined the ensemble.
Wait. Boyfriend? Where had that come from? Yes, she liked her old Mike, who was sweet and protective, and she loved this Mike, who was dark and sexy and strong. Unfortunately, this Mike would be here for about a week.
No need to invest in a new rug for a week of sexytimes, right?
Mike came out of the kitchen with the scissors. He'd taken his shirt off and her gaze lingered over every single inch of muscle-bound flesh.
Okay, maybe she could get a rug pad.
Mike knelt next to her on the rug. "Lie on your stomach," he ordered.
She obeyed, rather ungracefully, and waited to be freed of the plastic ties. They were sexy for a while, but now they were only sharp-edged instruments of torture.
She waited.
And waited.
She wriggled her hands, trying to hurry him along, but Mike wanted to take his time. Hello, Mr. King-of-the-Boy-Scouts? How long can it take to cut through a tiny strip of plastic?
He touched her shoulder, gentling her.
"Hush." His voice was a dark whisper behind her ear. "Don't move."
She instantly stilled, reacting to the promise in his voice. His hand swept down her back, over her bound wrists and down over her buttocks.
Her mind went blank. Pain? What pain? Then she felt the cold blade of the scissors and, with a quick tug, she was freed.
But a dark instinct caused her to remain perfectly still, hands held loosely behind her back.
"Good girl," Mike breathed.
The words made her melt. He took her right hand, caressing the palm, and his gentle touch made every nerve in her body tingle. She held her breath as he massaged her arm with teasing, light caresses.
Her pulmonary capacity remained suspended as he turned to her elbow, and by the time he started the excruciatingly pleasurable massage on her left arm, she was wet and wanting.
A stinging pain on her butt woke her from her lust-filled stupor. It was only then that she realized that she wasn't following instructions. She'd been unconsciously grinding her hips into the room's much-abused oriental rug.
Mike slapped her again, but the contact only made her sq
uirm. She moaned, unable to control her traitorous body.
"I said keep still," he hissed.
She whimpered as she tried to comply. This game was arousing as hell, but she really wanted to hurry things up.
"Poor baby," he said, stroking her hip. "It seems you're having a hard time."
"Actually," she muttered crossly. "I wish I were having a hard time."
Another slap. This one made her skin burn and her hips jerked in response. She felt a trail of wetness travel over her skin. She'd never been so turned on in her life. Hells, she didn't think it was possible to be more sexually excited than she was right now.
But she was wrong. She bit her lip as she felt Mike's finger follow the path of moisture. She held her breath as his hand moved higher, closer to the source of her need.
Suddenly, the taunting touch disappeared. She practically trembled with disappointment.
"Hell, Abby," Mike whispered. "You taste good. You taste real good."
His low, rasping voice, full of wonder and lust, was the final straw. It broke her.
"Please," she begged. "Please."
She parted her legs, shameless. She didn't care anymore, she wanted him desperately.
"I like how you said that." His hand hovered between her thighs. "I like that a lot."
She shuddered as his longed-for fingers settled over her clit. Her whole body clenched as the pleasure surged through her like an electric current. She bucked and writhed, desperate for fulfillment.
Which wouldn't come.
Literally.
Her thigh muscles contracted painfully, her fists clenched. Mike's touch was a delicious torture. She simply couldn't come in this position.
"Mike," she gasped.
For once, he didn't make her beg. He pushed her onto her hands and knees and she heard the telltale tear of a foil wrapper. Then he was inside her, the force of his thrust making her arms buckle so she almost fell back on the carpet.
But she held the position, pleading shamelessly for relief.
"Please, Mike. Please," she moaned as he took her to the brink of completion.
"I."
Thrust.
"Like."
Thrust.
"How you say that."
She felt him come inside her and her body convulsed wildly as a powerful orgasm shook her to the core. She fell to the ground spent, and Mike collapsed on top of her, his hot, sweaty body pressing her to the floor.
She smiled, feeling replete. Yep, no doubt about it.
She had to get a rug pad.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MIKE FROWNED at the claw-foot bathtub. It was clean, it was cute, it was adorned with an adorable yellow shower curtain with white lace edging, but it didn't fool him. This innocent-looking white porcelain contraption was a household accident waiting to happen.
But he didn't have any choice. Abby's house, he'd learned, was big on charm and small on comfort. This was the only bathroom. At least the black and white hexagon mosaic on the floor would provide some traction.
He turned on the creaky water taps and prayed for hot water. The pipes groaned obligingly. He waited a couple of minutes then pulled away the frothy shower curtain and stepped in.
Yep, just as he'd guessed, ice cold.
He picked up the shampoo bottle. The label read "Banshee Creek Botánica's Lavender and Witch Hazel Shampoo." It promised "protection against dandruff, psoriasis, and evil eye," and warned "do not use if Mercury is in retrograde."
The thing smelled like flowers, old fashioned flowers, the kind grandmothers liked.
He sighed and put it on. This wasn't the most uncomfortable shower he'd ever had, a leaky bucket in Camp Eggers still held that dubious distinction, but it was close. It was certainly a big change from Spartan army barracks.
He finished quickly, wrapped himself in a fluffy towel embroidered with yellow flowers, and got out. He dried off, reached for his civilian clothes. The plain gray sweats and t-shirt looked very austere against the aggressive femininity of the bathroom.
But he liked that. He got dressed, dried his hair and checked his appearance in the antique mirror. The bathroom was outdated, uncomfortable and most definitely unsafe, but it was a perfect reflection of Abby's personality. Take this mirror, it was pretty and shiny and completely impractical. She should have put in a medicine cabinet. That would have kept the pedestal sink clear. But instead, her sink was littered with bottles.
But, the mirror was really pretty.
Just like Abby.
He hung the towel on an ornate metal hook with a crystal thingamabob on the end, and opened the bathroom door. He walked down the hallway, past the guest bedroom where he'd stowed his duffle bag, and past Abby's room, where the bed was covered with wigs, makeup and clothes, and headed down the narrow staircase.
Abby was in the kitchen, cooking. She was dressed in a jade kimono-like thing with her hair tied back. She looked up when she heard him coming down the stairs and...
Blushed.
He walked up to the tiny breakfast bar and sat on an equally minuscule stool, hiding a smile.
He'd put that blush on her face. He'd tied her up and stripped her clothes off and fucked her senseless and now she couldn't quite look him in the eye.
It felt good.
"So," he drawled. "I guess you're hungry."
Another blush.
"Starving, actually," she said.
He looked down at her handiwork. It looked very fruity.
"Are you making salad?" he asked, trying to hide his disappointment. Several hours of ravishment had left his beloved with an irresistible craving for fruit. Not exactly flattering, was it?
Not to mention that the aforementioned ravishment had also left him feeling ravenous. And an apple and a couple of orange slices weren't going to do the trick, not by a long shot.
But he was relieved to see that the kitchen, although decorated in the same quirky vintage style as the rest of the house, seemed modern and functional. It had white cabinets and appliances and a grayish stone countertop. The stove was small, but he was sure he could cook a steak on it.
But he didn't think Abby had steaks in the house, or any kind of real food for that matter. Abby's peripatetic lifestyle didn't leave her much time for shopping for food and she subsisted on take-out from her waitressing jobs and those nasty granola bars that claimed to be healthy but were nothing but grainy candy bars. As far as he knew, she didn't cook at all, which explained why the kitchen was so neat and tidy.
Well, at least she had fruit. And she knew how to chop it.
She stared at him, confused. He pointed to the fruit and she laughed.
"No," she said, throwing the chopped fruit in a pitcher. "This is for sangría. I called the pizza place. They're still open and making deliveries."
Pizza. His stomach growled. Now that was more like it.
"What kind did you get?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes.
"With everything on it and extra garlic," she said. "Would I order any other kind of pizza for you, Mike Stone?"
He grinned. Happy that she'd remembered his favorite food.
A thought struck him.
"Maybe you shouldn't have asked for the extra garlic," he said.
That made her laugh.
"I think it's okay," she giggled. "As long as we both eat it."
The doorbell rang.
"That's Zach," Abby said, wiping her hands on a rag. "Wow, that was fast. He must have really hustled."
She went to open the door. Mike followed her, wondering whether he should clear the dining room table. He suspected that it would be too intrusive. They could, after all, eat at the breakfast bar.
"Zach!" He heard Abby exclaim. "I can't believe you're still up. Didn't you get out of the hospital practically yesterday? You should be home getting your beauty sleep."
Mike's gut clenched as the tall, dark-haired guy with the killer smile and Berklee School of Music shirt bent down to kiss Abby. True, he barely g
razed her cheek, but Mike still wanted to punch him.
Hard.
Even if the guy had really just come out of the hospital.
"More like six months ago," the guy said, his arm still wrapped around Abby's waist. "And it's only a bit past midnight. The party is just getting started out there and it looks like I'm going to have a long night."
Mike glanced at the antique clock on Abby's mantelpiece. It was almost two in the morning. And he couldn't help but notice that their ersatz pizza delivery guy wasn't actually carrying any pizza.
"You know well my night owl ways." The delinquent delivery guy looked up, assessing Mike. "And you haven't introduced me to your friend."
Abby stepped back. "Sorry, this is Mike Stone. Mike, this is Zach Franco."
Zach stepped forward and offered his left hand. His right hand was held up in a sling. He had no bandages, but pretty nasty scars marred his wrist and elbow, the kind of scars that indicated surgery and metal plates and screws. And his movements were a bit jerky, with that telltale rhythm that hinted to long painful hours of physical therapy. Mike was pretty familiar with wounds, and he could tell that this one was a doozy. Zach wasn't carrying the pizza which implied that his fine motor kills were still weak.
But Zach's handshake was strong. And the way Zach was looking at him reminded him of his first boot camp, where the sergeant assessed the troops, trying to figure out who had what it took to be a good soldier.
Zach was trying to figure out whether he was good enough for Abby. Well, that explained the two-ack-emma pizza delivery. This was about inspecting the guy Abby had staying at her house.
And Mike respected that. It was good to see that Abby had people looking out for her.
"Thanks for coming," he said, shaking Zach's hand. "I suspect you guys have had a busy night, even if the party broke up early."
Zach shook his head.
"You have no idea," he said. "I've never seen anything like this. I think breaking up the party actually helped. People moved out to the street and visited all the shops. We are running out of mozzarella, and Patricia's bakery was mobbed and she's on her twelfth batch of apple cider donuts."
He turned to Abby, who looked bereft.
Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) Page 7